How Pluto Lost His Status

It is a common fact that most of the great conflicts have been started over a single dame, called a damsel. (Only the Trojan War was fought over a married woman, called off limits.) The Revolutionary War erupted because the British capture Pocahontas. The Spanish-American War came about when some senorita, rumors say, ran off with Roy Rogers. And even World War II was started only after a British woman named Fraulein had tea with Mussolini.

I remember several years ago that Pluto was voted off of the planetary scale. I am sure the old fellow was quite put out. After being invented by some earthling almost 80 years ago, he had been sitting prettily—and perhaps quite coolly—out some several billion miles away as a planet. “It was an honor,” he once told me, “to be labeled as one and run with ‘big boys’ like ol’ Jupiter, Saturn, and Uranus, and to be able to flirt with Venus” because he was considered a planet.

Actually, I think flirting with Venus got him in trouble. There he was winking his cold blue eyes at her and that whippersnapper Mercury—you need to watch those young fleet-of-foot fellows—became a little heated under the collar. “He left a memo at the Astronomers’ Club—that’s where the astronauts, scientists, and astro-physicists hang out while they’re waiting for an amateur astronomer to discover a new star for them to name,” an anonymous source at the College of Space and Stuff (alright, so it was the janitor’s assistant) told the unassociated press, “saying, ‘If this schmuck is not off my block by the time it takes me to take a spin around the sun, I’ll…’” And he never finished his threat because he was already around the sun for the another spin.

The astronomers—they’re excitable people. You report an asteroid descending towards the earth or tell them that some solar flares are jumping off the sun again, and you’ll have them scrambling for their calculators, gazing through their telescopes and writing down equations and counter-equations a mathematician can’t even fathom. Next thing you’ll know there’s a state of emergency and they will devise someway of throwing the earth in reverse to barely dodge a Hollywood apocalypse. They really are quaint old sorts who take their jobs quite seriously.

Anyhow, as I was saying, the astronomers gather for a convention and named it something important like, the 2006 International Convention of Astronomers for the Determination and Termination of Pluto as a Planet (ICADTPP). They sent an invitation to Pluto so that he could defend himself, but Pluto was too far away to hear and missed his queue. Regardless, between coffee breaks, someone—it was the janitor’s assistant again—made a motion to impeach Pluto as a planet.

The reasons were quite ludicrous. They said he was smaller than earth. Of course, that got Mars upset and he turned red. Venus didn’t care because she said she wasn’t small but “petite.” Mercury did not comment. However, to calm the raging god of war, who appeared to be blowing a blood vessel, they—that’s the janitor and his assistant—said that the other “smaller” planets would be grandfathered in. Therefore they wrote three volumes of footnotes with calculation and diagrams and statistics to make their claim look too complicated to be wrong. (It convinced me!)

Throughout all of this, Pluto had still not made his appearance. It’s hard to blame him since the messenger thought some other large floating rock was Pluto and gave that fellow the message.

The five scientists present—the rest were lounging at the hotel’s pool or were visiting the various clubs and other landmarks—thought it would be a good prank to pull on Pluto. So they agreed. And Pluto was ousted.

Of course, Venus wrote her dear John letter. “How would it look,” she said, “for a girl like me to be dating some overgrown asteroid or dwarf planet? I ask you.” She was never a very sensitive woman. In fact, she might have been once a New Yorker. For she always says what she thinks, or feels, and gets away with murder.

Correctness in Feminism

I believe men have developed the unique capability of being silent sufferers. Golf has helped in this. In that sport most words are hardly spoken above a hush and are often short phrases whose climax contains no more than four letters. This apparent mellowness has the characteristics of meekness. Women may say men are proud; I say men are meek.

It wasn't so very long ago when men were not so. Only about 10,000 years ago--I remember it as if it were yesterday--Thug sauntered out of his cave, yawned, stretched, and gazed steadfastly into the horizon with a gleam in the eyes only seen on recruitment posters or in a woman hunting for a husband. Neither flinching nor stalling, he stepped out into the dawn, his hand clutching a piece of oak like Babe Ruth.

"There goes Thug," a neighboring cave-dweller was heard to remark quite briskly, "off wife-hunting, I suppose."

That was, however, 10,000 years ago when men were too thick-skulled to know that one does not hit a lady and when the ladies were too thick-skulled to care. Things have flip-flopped now. Women slug their men and think nothing of it. Men simply think nothing.

While many men, glancing with that half-closed-eye look of a Britain summoning Jeeves for more tea, complain that women are "not what they used to be" and women, excitable as hares on a May morning, complain that men are "what they used to be," no one seems to see the real source of the problem. Of course, if you ask an adult, the blame, with Adam-like swiftness, is laid out against the children--"They're not what they used to be." That comes, nonetheless, from the parents, who, being more infantile than childish, are not as they used to be. Come to think of it, neither are the toys and the toymakers. In fact, nothing, except hypocrisy, seems to be what it once was.

I think, if I am still allowed to do so because heaven knows I am no longer permitted to hold and preach my own opinion for fear of annoyance, the problem is a shallow one. It's not shallow because the reason is shallow, but because the cause of the reason is shallow--man. As the old statement says, "If a women hears a tree fall in a forest, a man is still wrong." Firstly, I shall be very clear: women are right that men are wrong. But men are wrong not because women are right. Men are wrong because women are "as they used to be." Women have, since Adam became the first organ donor, wanted men to be manly and to be in charge. For that reason, while women may not have liked it, the daughters of Eve never held conventions to complain about Thug twacking his bride-to-be. That's not to say they enjoyed the beaming. Absolutely not. But they wanted the security. If Thug, their reasoning is, was bold enough to clobber his soon-to-be-Mrs. just once, he was bold enough to control a household and a host of children.

Regardless, Thug still remained a brute. He was so not because he wanted to control his house, but because he thought it manly and necessary to knock out his heart's-delight to prove his love. The principle is true, but the action is not. A woman, I am told, desires a man who can put his foot down, not on her toes but on the threshold of his house, and keep it there regardless of his brutish inclinations and her feminine whims and wiles.

Because of their desires, yesterdays feminists had always been fighting for a great cause--not the emancipation of women, but the masculinization of men. Carrie Nation began waving a hatchet not because she hated alcohol, but because men stopped waving clubs and had begun drinking to solve their problems. Susan B. Anthony began crying for population control not because she hated population, but because she hated a leaderless population. Both reactions were wrong for the right reasons. That is, however, how the feminists--and most heretics, for that matter--work.

As she turned away

As she turned away and parted,
"Love," I said, "is worth the grieving."
From the moment love-looks started,
As she turned away and parted,
We swore to be both faithful-hearted.
Who was I, poor fool, deceiving
As she turned away and parted--
"Love," I said, "is worth the grieving"?

The Lilac Girl

From boards, a broken box, a shelf,
She made her homemade hideaway
Where she would watch the spiders weave
Their webs, and wear away the day.
There were no heartaches for herself
In her new home among the lilac leaves.

Within the foliage, she had hid
A doll adorned in wedding white,
A battered book in which she’d weave
A child’s dream, some coins, a kite,
A treasure chest without a lid –
She laid these there among her lilac leaves.

Too soon, too soon, the days decayed
From bird-sung spring to autumn time;
Her youth, which wonder weaved
And waxed tremendous and sublime,
Began to wane away. She played
No more among the fading lilac leaves.

The sun set coldly through the clouds,
And summer ceased—she came no more:
No more she watched the spiders weave
Nor kept her prizes as before.
Her doll in weather-beaten shrouds
Laid brokenhearted in the lilac leaves.

Yet every day I pass that way
With hopes to see her still, her book
In hand, and listen while she weaves
Her girlish schemes that came and took
Her far—so very far away—
Beyond her home among the lilac leaves.

The Bagpiper

No more the high pitched pipes will wail,
No more will chill the tepid souls,
No more the patriotic tale.
But now, now noiseless,
They rest like shades in holes,
Impatient and joyless
Until the piper warms again the vale
Where men shall drink his songs like ale.

The minstrels too are gone away
As if in search for places where
Men love the wild and woeful lays
And want the groaning
Of the discontented airs
With their mournful monotoning;
For homes and castle hearths play they
Whose songs are melancholically gay.

But here, alas, no piper winds
His notes where men are more like beasts
Than men, where men are deaf and blind
With their own dignity –
There is no room for song-filled feasts
Or warrior sanguinity.
He sets out now with hopes to find
A world of wonder still left behind.

Sometimes, I wander through the night
And sit among the ruins where
The ghostly bard in doleful delight
Once played his dirges
Merrily and majestically clear
As the moon emerges
Sullen with the gloom of night
Yet lamentingly low and light.

Ah! often I recall those airs
I used to hear—they stir me still,
The rousing and reverberant heirs.
Still they are haunting
With Plutonic and primeval thrills;
Though dim, still daunting,
In some solitary sepulcher
Waiting to rise and shake the tepid air.

The Tale of Blackburn Tavern: Part I

“I would claim
A place among that knighthood of the sea.”
Henry Van Dyke “Hudson’s Last Voyage.”

Follow the shallow spring, the babbling brook,
And watch the gentle trickle, slithering past
The ancient elms and oaks, begin to grow
As streams pay tribute one by one until the creek
Becomes impatient, seething and whirling down
The mountain’s side. Onward it goes, growing mad
And swelling and surging onward down the slopes.
Within this maddening flood, a war is waged
Among the waves as each, with ardent hopes
Of arriving first on the golden beach, contends
With each and every wave – a mad dash, a race.

Follow, if you dare, these falling crests.
They leap and bound in their bacchanal dance,
Their fits of fury, frenzied waltzes, whirling streams.
Follow, if you dare, the crowning caps
That spring o’er boulders like the hunted hart
Who hurdles brush and bush when howling hounds
Attempt to close and thwart her fated flight.
Follow, if you dare, these waters that feed
Not lakes and ponds, but Neptune’s realm,
The opulent ocean and the surging seas.
Follow it and do not dare to turn away
Until you’ve seen the shore, the craggy cliffs
That jut out of the ancient face of stone.

Recline among the rugged rocks and hear
The wisdom rumored through the raucous winds,
Repeated on the shore with each new wave
That crashes on the toothéd stone. Hear the echo
Of days departed. Hear the sounds of sons
Exclaiming words of love above the roar—
The thundering boom—of waves, to breathless maids,
Who hang upon each stuttered, stammered word.
Attend the words—no longer spoken loud—
Of love, and see the ruby lips of her,
The lady of his heart, hold the world
In silence with her smile. And watch her face
Compete with roses as her maiden blush
Informs the gulls of what her heart has heard.
Hear as mothers call their children home
From play; the laughing songs of children’s games,
Transported by the wind, that calms the hearts
Which hurts and aches made heavy in their grief.
And hearken to the sound that cuts the dusk
As fathers stroll their homeward course—the airs
Which fathers sing, of love and life, the chimes
Of happy hearths, of merry maids and wives.
And hear the jingles ring within the streets
And hear the cheerful feet that scurry out
To meet the sires coming home with fish
And catch and plenty. Hear the sounds of joy,
The harmony of happy homes, now lost.
Hear these sounds remembered only by the wind;
Unearth in them a momentary peace
Away from present pains, and drink these draughts
Fermented well within the crypt of Time.

The breezes here still moan for ancient days—
Days dead and gone—blown like autumn leaves.
They live, they die, they are no more. The tomes
Of history—even those—do not contain this past.
But like a wave once spread upon the shore,
Whose force is spent, will slink back to the sea,
Is lost from sight forever, So too the tales,
The ancient legends, once their virtue’s gone,
Must tiptoe into the annals of a time
Unknown, to be forgotten by the world.
This is the world of Blackburn Tavern: lost.
It lies beside the sea, forgotten but for scars
Of tides, of yesteryear. Here beer once flowed
Like rivers leaping to the sea and sailors told
The mysteries of the deep in ghostly tones
As only sailors can. Here one among the best,
A legend in his time, a myth among his own,
Still sits, his pipe within his mouth as he
Plays host to seamen souls. And Blackburn is
His name, the keeper of the inn, who fills
The flowing bowls with beer, and ears with tales
Of days upon the sea, how he once sailed
Off Newfoundland’s fjord for fish and went
Adrift upon the artic waves, how he…
And here he stops and drums his finger-stumps
Upon the counter made from oak as he
Within his soul recalls the frightful days
He spent with his dead dory mate. But then
His tale he tells, and tears at times infest
His eyes.

The Song of Rachel

I stood and stared into my hands
As if they screamed out guiltily.
“I have no scorn nor reprimands,
A wild beast has taken him,” said she.

The mother, seeped in sorrow, clasped
The bloodied body to her breast –
The body seconds earlier had gasped
His final sobs, then went to rest.

No sound, but silence thicker than
The blackness of the bestial sea
Was there until she said again,
“A beast has taken him from me.”

She struck the heavens dumb with sighs.
“Some beast,” she sighed, “I know not whom –
She turned and gazed into my eyes –
Took the only child of my virgin womb.

“He took and tossed his life away
Like litter, a tempest-tattered bag.
He tore him with his teeth; he played
Him like a useless piece of rag.

“But I forgive. How was the beast
To know he was my only boy,
Who suckled softly at my breast,
Who gave my life its life – my joy!”

I watched the teardrops swelling in
Her ocean-eyes and trickle down
The whiteness of her cheek and chin
And fall like stones upon the ground.

I tried to solace her with words,
But she would not be comforted.
Her heart was pierced by seven swords
And in her arms her son was dead.

“A beast has killed…” and sorrow stilled
All words she might have said to me;
I stared into my hands, and guilt
Stared dreadfully like blood at me.

If I to prove my love

If I to prove my love should kiss,
I would not kiss you once, but twice—
Then ten more times for emphasis.

But two and ten is twelve and, Miss,
I fear that twelve would not suffice
If I to prove my love should kiss.

That I might fill what is remiss,
I’ll add one more to break the ice,
Then ten more times for emphasis.

Do I dare stop with one more kiss?—
My counting may be imprecise
If I to prove my love should kiss.

So I will add ten more to this—
But even then I’m not precise,
Then ten more times for emphasis.

Yet, when I start to reminisce,
I charge myself with cowardice
If I to prove my love should kiss—
Then ten more times for emphasis.

Sonnet of Christ to St. Cecilia

Sing, Cecilia, sing the vespers of your heart,
And alleviate the sorrows of my soul.
I daily wander to Gethsemane,
Reliving there the aching of my heart.
And I retrace the trails with bloodied soles
Onward, onward, up to my cruel Calvary.
But, ah, there stands just one beneath my tree
Of truth; there stands just one—stand with her.
She, whom my heart desires—it is she.
Her beating heart is song; her breathing, hymns;
Her eyes, like stars in heaven’s velvet sea,
Intone their twinkling tunes. And my limbs
And bones that writhe in pain shall painless be
If you shall sing your songs to comfort her.

The Ballad for the Ancients

With shouts of joy, I lift to my lips
A brazen bugle. I blow
A blast into air, beckoning to my ships
That lie in wait below.

And from the decks, like plaques they pour,
My comrades ten, to sack the town,
To carry off the wealth of war:
Some coins, a king, a crown.

The people think that I am mad,
Because I waste my time with toys.
But let them say that I am mad—
I’m still at heart a boy.

Sonnet: The Light I Longed to See

The light I longed to see, the light of hope,
Is doused and damned; and as grim as the grave
Is now the night. Abandoned-blind, I grope
My way alone. “Is there not one to brave
The darkness of the night to comfort me?”
The blackness bellows back its answer , “None!”
Crawl down the path that fate has forged for thee.
For friend-forgotten, go thou art alone!”
But as the words roll down from mouth unseen,
A star, so thunderously silent, rends
The curtain of the clouds and like the queen
Of jewels dawns and down, down, down descends.
Her silence, soft and low, down from her throne
Speaks golden words, “My son, you’re not alone.”

Poe

Ah, Poe! a right and curious name
For one whose dismal tones were signs
Of woe and now are words of fame.
But is such standing worth the lines?
I dare not ask. But rather weep
And ponder “quaint and curious lore”
That rouses out of restive sleep
The one who loves through you Lenore.

Ah, Poe! your name is a sad sigh
That slips between the teeth of time
And lingers like an echoing cry
Still haunting hearts with restive rhyme.
But to your searches, we are blind;
And deaf to your songs of Eldorado:
That thirst for peace you could not find
On earth, “in sunshine or in shadow.”

Ah, Poe! unhappy man! What bells
Were tolled for you? What hopeful score?
Alas, we heard the dull, dull knells
Roll down, down the seaside shore.
A sad sound, a melancholic tone,
Whose troubling tolling trudges in
The mist to mourn the buried bones.
What hope? I dare not ask again!

Ah, Poe! in a small thrice-sung song,
You have a hope. For he that calls
His Mother, though the demons throng
About, shall hear the heaven-halls
Resound his cry. For she, who gave
Our God His flesh, though hope be dim
Can give the grace that will now save
The man who wrote for her a hymn.

How "The Raven" was written

I don’t mean to boast, but my ancestors have always been fairly inspiring to many of the greatest writers. Without some Italian great uncle of mine having ousted Dante, The Divine Comedy would not have been written. (Of course, after the work gained considerable fame, my family removed the uncle about three or four times.) It was actually one of my grandmothers—there are so many great ones that I lost track—was hopelessly smitten with Shakespeare. (It only goes to prove that love of theater people goes back a long ways.) Therefore, she, not being one of the London beauties’ at the time, drove Shakespeare to use his immortal words “get thee to a nunnery.” And a mischievous cousin tossed a stone through the box office window at the Globe also inspiring the great master to say, “What through yonder window breaks?”

In the more modern literary circles, my relatives were not slack. One of my brothers’ wife’s aunt modeled for Moby Dick. And my great-grandfather’s facial feature moved a fellow called Graham to write about a toad. Furthermore, my fisherman uncle, who lost an arm to a shark just before the Great War, encouraged Hemingway to write his autobiography, and he called it “Farewell to Arms.”

While all of these kinfolk were achieving some fame through inspiring literary figures, I thought I would be forced out of the business. I was already pushing thirty-five and going on thirty and still had not helped a writer to his great work of genius. I myself was an aspiring writer with little proof of aspiring and littler proof of being a writer. (The only publications I had to my name were two letters to an editor. I had sent twenty-nine letters, but only two were accepted.)

I was meandering down the street on autumnal day. (As a rule of thumb, great literary figures or great aspiring figures—even when the greatness is not literary—always meander. They must never be rushed. Furthermore, everything in literature happens either in spring or autumn.) As I said, I was meandering when I bumped into a tall thin man with a scrawny mustache.

“Ah, you are Mr. Murtha, I presume,” he said. “I’m Mr. Poe of Virginia. Perhaps you’ve heard of me.” (His southern accent—it was clear he was either a fraud or had spent too much time in Boston—was on its way out the door.)

As always my family hereditary spirit came into form here, I looked him up and down and knew he needed help. And so, I became condescending.

“Yes, I do believe I have. I hope you don’t take my condescending attitude too personally,” I continued. “I know you artsy people are so miserable and self-deprecating. But it’s simply the attitude of the trade.”

“Don’t worry. I understand completely. I’m a bit that way myself when I am editing a work. One has to be to keep his audience.”

“Well, Ed,” I said, “what seems to be the issue?”

“I am working on this poem,” E. A. explained, “and I just can’t seem to figure out how to make it work.”

“What’s the plot?”

“I have this girl, you see. She died. Well, actually, for all the reader knows, she could have run away or eloped with this other fellow. But it is no matter.”

“What’s her name?”

“I thought of calling her Jezebel. It was a fairly popular name at one…”

“Lenore.”

“What’s that?”

“Call her Lenore. It’s more poetic than Jezebel, and attractive.”

“Yes, Lenore. Okay. Well, I have this fellow—he has no name—dejected and despairing of ever seeing her again. And he hears a noise. He opens a door and—nothing! He goes to the window and in walks a parrot and tells him he might see her again.”

“A parrot?”

“Yes. What’s wrong with a parrot? They talk, don’t they? And the parrot repeats itself, “Says, the Parrot, ‘Perhaps.’ A two word alliteration. I think it’s very nice.”

“Eddy, Eddy,” I groaned. “This will not do. A parrot saying ‘perhaps’ will definitely not stir any feelings in anyone.”

“That’s what I thought. But what can I do? I thought of an ape or an elephant. But nothing fits the meter. And sparrows are simply out of the question. They’re too common.”

“Yes, you’re right. But have the parrot say, ‘nevermore’ or something like that. It rhymes with Lenore and it’s foreboding like.”

“Ah! Yes, thank you.”

“And say, ‘quoth.’ It’s more archaic and not too many people will plagiarize out-of-date terminology.”

“Right! This wonderful! ‘Quoth the parrot, ‘Nevermore!’ You know, I like it. It has a ring to it.”

“Yes,” I said, “now if you don’t mind, I think I’ll let some light in.”

Here I opened wide the shutters when, with many a flirt and flutter in there stepped a stately raven. And the rest was history.

Take Care, It Is Her Heart

Give it not up to the grave
Nor lock it in a vault
To be forever forgotten.
It is here for you to have--
And let there be no fault
In what is by love begotten.

Take good care, it is her heart
She gives to you to guard.
Yield it up not now nor never.
If, for a time, she must depart,
Even then do not discard
But keep it close to you forever.

The Bachelor Uncle, a Sketch: Part 1, a description of his duties

In the broad range of the Family—which here means grandparents to grandchildren, aunts and uncles to nieces and nephews—one figure stands out as a nuisance to be dealt with immediately before his status matures from temporary to permanent. That is, the bachelor uncle. The man is more of a domesticated rogue whose pleasure is, unintentionally of course, the Family’s displeasure. It is he who, by right of his office, causes more crises than any other figure within the familial structure.

The Bachelor Uncle, or the B. U., if he is educated correctly in his position within the Family configuration, knows that he has not other mission except innocent mischief. It is he who must rile—or “stir the pot” as some say—the nieces and nephews to such a degree of excitement that nothing short of being sent to a corner or to bed would calm the imps down. He will suggest that one niece will clobber a nephew with a stick or that a nephew will stealthily plunder the cookie jar while the mothers have turned, as a unit, their backs for a second to check on the turkey or to converse about the best way to mash potatoes or to make a twenty dollar bill stretch a mile and a half. The B. U. is the stalwart symbol of chaos and distress.

When the Bachelor Uncle is gone, everyone loves him and recalls fondly, and perhaps with a tear in the eye, the various impish exploits he has performed. But let that change. Let him approach within shouting distance, and so does the attitude of the Family. If word reaches the members of the Family that the B. U. will make the get-together, parents gather their children to issue warnings and threats. “Remember what happened the last time you wrestled with Uncle Patrick,” one will say. “You turned your cheeks into something short of Niagara Falls.” Or another will say, “Now Johnny, don’t come crying to me if you get hurt playing with Uncle Patrick.” Inevitably, the nieces and nephews will forget the parental warnings, and the unavoidable will happen.

The B. U., regardless of what happens, is expected to be good humored. The Family expects him to saunter about with a happy-go-lucky expression to everything he does because he, as the others are not, unmarried. He has, as far as the Family is concerned and steadfastly believes, no cares, no concerns, and no responsibilities. And so the B. U., demonstrating this attitude, will meander about the reunions and gatherings, leaving havoc and desolation in his wake while he continues lolly-gagging here or there, whistling a tune or two, and cheerily tossing a niece here or a nephew there.

Furthermore, because he is a bachelor, the B. U. must keep a healthy appetite. He will be the fellow to sit down to the Family meal with a knife in one hand and a fork in the other and a napkin dangling from between his throat and shirt collar. Without hesitation, after the prayers have been said, he should jocularly thrust his fork into whichever victuals have been planted before. Moreover, seemingly without bothering with those about him, he ought to start cramming that “stuff” down his throat. It may sound rude and callous, but it is expected of him. And why? Because he has no children of his own. The common philosophy of the Family will be those with children are more responsible. Regardless of whether the B. U. believes that, it is his job not to disturb the certainty the Family has in this principle.

It is, however, often in the Family’s best interest and for their tranquility among the relations to eliminate the B. U. This is not an simple task since murder is, for the most part, out of the question. And while feuds do provide local entertainment, it is also rather costly. But the method often employed, which is quite effective as all of his motives for being a B. U. with this method end in a single moment, is complicated and often time-consuming. The most sanitary and diplomatic means of eradicating the B. U. is finding him a wife. But, as I said, that is hardly the easiest route to take.

The Warning of Spring

My child, why sit you here so sad
Upon the cold, gray stairs? But say,
The spring has come—all nature’s glad
To throw the winter robes away.

The lily-brides have veiled their heads
In white; the trees—they’re gowned in green—
Are budding with birds; And floral beds
Thrive with life about the Queen.

Even now the night, both dark and fair,
Has primed herself for spring: With stars
She gilds her raven-tinted hair;
She scents herself with flowers for Mars.

Be now like nature, child, and chase
The autumnal tears from in your eyes;
And winter written on your face,
Let cheeks of roses liquefy.

Then, rise and do. For spring, though spry,
Grows quickly old and, fading fast,
Her flowers waste away and die,
Unplucked within a forgotten past.

I, Pariah

"If I would justify myself, my own mouth shall condemn me: if I would shew myself innocent, he shall prove me wicked." (Job 9:20)

I know that house we just have passed,
For in my younger days, I lived
As guest, as friend, as brother there.
They opened up to me; I cast
My cares aside as gladness thrived
As copious as their coffee there.

But I have lost myself to them
That dwell within that house. I watch
Them through the window’s light,
For I, Pariah, am condemned
To trudge alone and hope to snatch
A glimpse of them out of the night.

And sometimes as I stand outside
The lamplight’s reach, I see a day
So far, so far away when I
No longer have to lurk or hide.
But something keeps me far away.
Alas, that cause is none, but I.

A Nocturne

The slow and low and mellow air
Like a soft, spring breeze of night
Comes creeping up the creaking stair
Where I sit, reading in the night.

The pensive sighs of the night-song hold
My nomad thoughts to her whose hands
Like lovers under stars of gold
Meander down the ivory sands.

Her fingers journey down the keys,
And play one song, as two in love—
No worrying wind, no bitter breeze,
Just silent sighs and the stars above.

And who am I with my roving mind
To let her walk alone that shore?
I say to myself, “Be kind, be kind,
She needs your heart, your love—no more.”

The Echo of the Bells

She hears the footfalls of the bells
Sounding, sounding, sounding
Deep down the low and lonely dells.
She knows they’re calling her again;
The bells, obscuring and drowning
All other sounds, beckon. And then...

They’re gone. A droning echo sweeps
Across the prairie, whispering
Its doleful tones until it sleeps
For ever more. A silence reigns
And she is left alone and whispering
The sober knell of the bell’s refrain.

She strains her eyes to see the sounds
Her ears have heard, yet nothing
Can she see but prairie grass and ground
Still starving for the clouds to cry.
She prays for sight, for sound, for something
To wet her parched and thirsting eyes.

And as she turns to leave, a waft
Of wind comes by her greeting
And nodding golden grains—a draft
Of life, a memory of home.
She hears the bells again repeating
Come! Come! Come!

Take the Cyclist off the Sidewalk

Something really needs to be done about those cyclists who ride on the sidewalks. These non-pedestrians have no consideration for those who amble about on their feet. And to fix this problem, several cruel and unusual strategies have hatched themselves in my noggin. Perhaps I could utilize the old fishline trick and stretch some wire across the sidewalk. Then again, I might simply scatter tacks about and sit by with a newspaper and watch the show. I’ve even thought about employing the old gangster technique, but my violin case is in the shop. But I am not a violent man—but even Patrick Henry said in his famous St. Crispin’s Day’s speech, “Enough’s enough.”

Surely the cyclists know that streets are for vehicles and sidewalks are for walking—they’re not called sidewalks for nothing. In fact, when Noah—or was it Daniel?—Webster invented the word, he was very careful to toss pedestrian into the definition. The conversation between him and great-great-great-great grandfather was recorded somewhere in our family history.

“Billy—that’s what Mr. Webster called my ancient ancestor—I’ve got a problem,” Noah said. “And I think you can help.”

“Speak, Word, speak.” Mr. Webster. (My sources, which are just as good as your sources, tell me that Word was the affectionate term for Noah. Booth Tarkington, however, said that word means damn. But no one believes Mr. Tarkington.)

“Well, you see, I have a quandary. You know, a predicament: a difficult, trying, or perplexing situation, condition, or state.”

“Oh, Wordy Webster, I’ll give you what help I can,” my great-great-etc. grandfather assured him. “I’ve always been one to speak my mind and to stand by what I speak, even if it’s wrong. You know that.”

“Sure, Billy,” Mr. Webster continued.

“So what’s on the old noggin, or, as my grandfather would say, ‘What’s rattlin’ aboot in the on cranial cavity?’”

“Ah, yes. The head, or as some, employing the Samuel Johnson’s fourth edition of the Thesaurus, would say, ‘crown, brainpan, noodle, scalp, or cranium.’ Well, I am trying to figure out a new word, term, utterance, articulation—a sound or a locution that communicates a concept in the mind—in short, a word that will express a place where pedestrians may walk that is free more carriages, wagons, vehicles, carts, and other items that move, transport, or carry people, humans, mankind from place to place.”

“Is this item the street?”

“No, it’s beside the street.”

“Ah, beside the street!”

“And it’s not for driving?”

“No, it’s for pedestrians, people who use their feet to move their person from one place to another.”

“Such as, walk?”

“Exactly. They ample, saunter, meander, stroll, jaunt, stride, toddle, pace, and some will stagger, totter, lurch, wobble, flounder, teeter, and stumble on this certain thing. In short, they will walk on it.”

“Well, if it’s beside the street and it’s for walking, why not call it a besidestreet?”

“No, that won’t do. It has to express what it does.” (And that's how 21 questions was started.)

Two or three hours and approximately 52,461 words later, they decided upon a sidewalk, which, Webster insisted, was a place where pedestrians walk.

Now certain persons within out society have decided that the sidewalk, which is for walking, is really a street for riding their cycles. I must confess that when I was a boy, I was once such urchin that employed the sidewalks wrongfully. There, my admission is out. Since then, however, I have matured enough to realize that a sidewalk is as much for bicycles as a knife is for scooping peas. It can be done, but it’s not the purpose of the item.

I first thought about organizing a campaign promoting the use of sidewalks for walking and not for riding after I came within millimeters of meeting my death by a bicycle. (That would be a great mystery for Agatha Christi, Death by a Cycle.) I was at the university walking quietly to class—the university wasn’t walking to class; I was—when out of the blue, or rather through a crowd of pedestrians, tore this lunatic on a bicycle, almost leaving me looking like the skunk on main street, road kill. Of course, he wasn’t so rude. An echo of his apology came back as he never slacked speed but continued in his headlong rush across the campus, “SOOORRRYYYYY MURTHHAAAAAAAA!” I can’t say I forgave him as I began picking up my books and papers that were scattered about in a thirty foot radius of where I was.

Recently, I had a similar encounter with this sort of villainy. Only this time, I got the upper hand. On the same campus, at the same university, I was walking along minding my own business, which is normally normal for me. As I sauntered, strolled, ambled, in short, walked along the left hand side of the SIDEWALK, I saw a young lady in front of me. Being the polite and chivalrous being that I am, I began to move to my right. Behind me I heard a voice sputter, “Wait! No! Stop! Agh!” Those weren’t his only terms. He tossed a few nautical words in for good measure. I looked right behind me and there was cyclist pulling his bicycle from the bushes. Ha! It serves him right for using the sidewalk for a street, and what’s worse, for creeping up behind me.

On the English Butler

There once was a comfortable dependence on other people that made a society a real society. By society, everyone knows that I mean that herd of individuals living under the same common law with the same common goal and with the same common associations. Nowadays I hardly have anything that is in common with my neighbor. And that is a good thing for I would be the devil if I were like him.

But those age-old associations with people made a pleasant life. Take for example the English butler. (I hear they’re not as good as they once were, nor as common.) There was a man who was the pinnacle of human association. He represented—if Wodehouse presents him correctly—the paradigm of companionship. Much like a good old fashion collie, he was present whether one did or did not need him; he was there to offer advice whether one did or did not need advice; he was always ready to open the door when one did or did not need a door opened.

How I wish I could have one. In fact, if I could be a boy again, I dare say that I would not ask Santa Claus for the practical, no-nonsense things. No, I think I can do without the tank, the bazooka, the M-16, the handcuffs, the dinosaur, and that lot. I would ask for a gentleman’s gentleman—a Jeeves.

If I were the only boy to own one of those fine fellows, I would be the most envied boy in the sixty-six South Dakota counties. There I would stand, a lord among peasants. And I would be a lord because I have a Jeeves. I can picture myself on Christmas morning as a boy of seven with bucked teeth and freckles and tousled hair—I have lost the freckles.

While my siblings are unwrapping their gifts of baby dolls, guns, covered wagons, cowboys and Indians, ponies, and frying pans, I am cautiously eyeing my package which looks rather tall and straight as an arrow. I then carefully commence the unwrapping of the parcel. Of course, as is only proper, I start from the floor level and slowly uncover the blackest and shiniest set of shoes I have ever laid eyes on. Next my work begins to unveil a pair of smartly pressed pants and two hands ironed flat against the seams of those pants. Further upwards, a black coat with ivory black buttons reveals itself. And on and on I unwind the paper until finally a face—the features and expressions of which are sharp and emotionless, with the exception of a curious bend of the eyebrows every now and again—and a derby hat are bared before my bug-eyed siblings.

There is no question in my mind what I have before me. I have a butler—no, not a butler, a gentleman’s gentleman, a Jeeves. My brothers and sisters may have their tomahawks and pistols, but I have my Jeeves, Of course, he will say the first words.

“Goodmorning, sir. I hope you have slept well.”

“Remarkably odd, Jeeves,” I will reply, “Not only did I not sleep a wink, but I think I have kink in my neck.”

“Take two of these, sir, and a sip of this.” And with that, he will hand me two donuts and a cup of cocoa.

“Remarkable, Jeeves, simply remarkable. I have never felt better in all my life.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Of course, I shall keep him. One cannot give back or exchange gifts like this. Getting a Jeeves is almost as everlasting as marriage. One cannot return one’s wife to her parents and say, “I am sorry, Mr. and Mrs. Snutchcake, but your Ivy is as stiff as a board and packs a punch like a tornado. You will simply have to take her back. I bargained for something a little less like a baboon, but I got a gorilla.”

As you can see, that just doesn’t do. Returning a Jeeves would be about the same. “I am sorry, Santa Claus, but this Jeeves is quite obnoxious. He talks never and is simply a bore when it comes to having a good time like singing off key or throwing eggs at the postman. He turns off the radio and hands the postman my best towel. Furthermore, he actually has class, which is quite repulsive if you ask me.”

Having a Jeeves would be enormous fun. No brother, no sister, no other companion would be able to replace the irreplaceable—well, maybe a wife, but for now I will break in the Jeeves. If that works well, I might take on the greater challenge and order myself a wife.—As I said, he would be irreplaceable. Every time I found myself in a jam my Jeeves would get me out. It happens I’ve seen it in the movies.

One must remember, however, that having a Jeeves is not all games. But it does add some class to even the unclassiest of tasks. Even scooping the manure—notice, I’ve already develop a cleaner vocabulary. I could have said—anyhow, as I was saying, even scooping manure can suddenly have a strange appeal to it when Jeeves comes into play. I, of course, will still be doing the work. Oddly enough, cleaning animals’ pens are not on the Jeeves-can-do list. But he will open the door of the barn and hand me the pitchfork.

“What’s this, Jeeves?”

“I believe that natives call it a pitchfork, sir.”

“A pitchfork? Ha! What an odd name! And what, may I ask, am I to do with this contraption?”

“Scoop, sir.”

“Scoop, Jeeves? Scoop what?”

“Dung, sir.”

“Dung? You mean …”

“Indeed, sir. The stuff is also labeled, according to a book by McKenzie called Bob’s Rules of Agriculture and the Lot, manure, sir, or fertilizer or poop, as the more vulgar put it, or, as the sailors would say, …”

“Is this supposed to be fun, Jeeves?”

“No, sir. But the natives consider it to be so and do it quite often, sir. And your father was rather insistent that you do it too, sir. To some it is considered a hobby, if you care to look on the more optimistic side, sir.”

“Dash it all, Jeeves! I shall not care to look on the more optimistic side. But give the dashed pitchfork anyhow.”

The Girl on Horseback

She rode down the shores of the prairie,
The golden grain washing her feet;
She looked like the queen of the fairies,
Walking on waves in the wheat.

I stood for a while and I watched her
As she stopped on the crest of a hill.
She gazed on the ocean about her—
A kingdom all silent and still.

Her beauty was reckless and wild:
Her hair was windswept and free.
She had the whimsical eyes of a child
That feasted on all she could see.

The glimmering glow of the sun’s light,
With heaven as red as the rose,
Shadowed her looks in the twilight
As nature about her reposed.

And slowly the moon rose behind her,
And slowly the sun sank before.
And thousands of stars danced above her—
She galloped away as before.

Back through the shores of the prairie,
With golden grain washing her feet,
She rode like the queen of the fairies,
Walking on waves in the wheat.

And slowly she waned in the shadows,
And slowly she sank with the sun;
My hope had dawned in the shadows,
And vanished away with the sun.

But while there is grain on the prairie,
And while there is wind through the wheat,
I’ll look for the queen of the fairies
Walking on waves in the wheat.

The Locquacious Wife: A Sketch

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Most everybody knows of a loquacious wife. She is a wonderful creature whose conversation is about as lively as her heart and generously rounded as her waist. She is no tender footed dainty, that is for certain. The loqua—perhaps I should simply call her the L W for short—the L W is a popular woman among the town bachelors for two very good reasons. The first is obvious from her girth. She has a board that is the boast of the town. Her husband is truly blessed. The second is obvious from her good nature, for a good nature is rarely wasted on the skinny or the obese. Somehow, this enviable trait finds its home in the heart of the corpulent, male or female.

One specific matron, I should have you know, is Mrs. Taintnottin. She stole her name from her husband about thirty-two years ago on a bright day in June. She had not yet achieved her girth, but if her joviality was any promise of the future, her husband knew what was approaching and he loved it. At that time, she was a green eyed young beauty in a small town. They were as mysterious and wonderful to her husband as faith. And her smile captured and broke the hearts of many a young man.

Mrs. Taintnottin, Rosalie by her friends and “tootles” by her husband, presents the model for the L W. It is part of her nature, which some people rightly curb and others wrongfully curb, to be the speaker of the house. Not necessarily is she the boss. By no means, for we know that being vociferous does not, by its nature, make one the chief.

She is an honest woman in her speech. She once slapped Tommy Cartwright and called him a “lout and lazy good for nothing dirtbag” and later gave him a hug saying, “Next to my husband, you are the most gentlemanly fellow in the county.” (As odd as it may seem, she was right on both counts.) Sometimes, she tends to be too abrupt. But her listeners must always remember that she only speaks what is her mind. And what is on her mind stays long enough to be spoke and forgotten. Her thoughts, like her words, she supposes, flit away in a matter of seconds.

If you were to meet Mrs. Taintnottin, she is generally not far from a wide circle of friends and plenty of laughter.

“Now I said to the young lady,” Mrs. Taintnottin says, “you know, I doubt eloping is the way to go. It simply doesn’t pay. Take it from me. I had a regular wedding and was able to milk $234.67 out of the dollar dance alone. But Mr. Taintnottin, let me tell you, lost to me by only $56.90. Honestly, the boys were lined up for miles and the girls—well, there were a few of them too—only it was their last chance, I told them, to prance about with my Bill. And he was ever a nice dancer. So this young lady, as I said, came up and spoke about eloping. ‘My parents are not too keen on this fellow, I’m seeing,’ she said, ‘but he’s a good guy if ever I met one.’ Look, honey, I said, don’t you be going around your parents. They have some knowledge you’re unfamiliar with. You would do no wrong to listen and wait. If he’s a good fellow, as you say, he’ll wait. But don’t you be keeping him waiting too long. And don’t you elope. Like I said, there’s no money in it. Just with cards and cash alone…”

“Tootles,” Mr. Taintnottin interrupts, “are you sure these people want to hear about our wedding earnings?”

“Mr. Taintnottin (it was an odd custom she had, but that was her term endearment for the gray headed ancient), well, I am sure you’re right,” Mrs. Taintnottin returns. “Did I tell you folks what happened to me—Jill! why it’s been about sixty years, sixty years and thirteen days, to be sure, since I’ve seen you last?” And Mrs. Taintnottin turns away to an old friend who has just walked into the room.

The Ghost Ships

Below the bellowing gale,
Below the turbulent tide,
Are sailors asleep at the sail
Of vessels we dreamt to have died.

They rest in the dark of the deep
While above them the winds beat the hulls
Of ships the hurricanes sweep
To their beds on the shattering shoals.

They sleep through the sobs from the men,
Who manning the agonized ships
Pray to them time and again
With moans from their maundering lips.

They sleep on a bathyal bed
With eyes that are blind to new woes
And blind to the mornings that bled
Their blood upon shallows and floes.

They rest with their hands at the line,
With hands on halyard and helm;
They dream of their days on the brine –
These ghosts of the neritic realm.

Below lies a spectral race,
Below the mutinous sea,
Awaiting the call to retrace
Their paths on the turbulent sea.